


We Are (Not) Being Watched (Here)

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 Nautilus, Established Relationship, Handcuffs, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You kept them." John says, pleased. He remembers Finch dropping the cuffs into his laptop bag in the backseat of John's car, hadn't thought to ask for them back, hadn't dared to push his luck with Finch even further than he already had.</p>
<p>(Takes place directly after 4x02 Nautilus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are (Not) Being Watched (Here)

Shaw leaves to take Bear for a long walk, and Harold gives John a brief tour.

 

"These tunnels spread out for miles under the city. I haven't had time to explore them thoroughly, we'll find out more as we go along."

 

"Bottled water, tins. Don't worry, they're new."

 

Tucked away around one corner is a hospital bedframe that looks as though it hasn't been touched since the thirties, except it's not dusty, and the mattress is modern, memory foam. "I've left this here for emergencies. We'll need to keep sleeping at our cover residences to avoid suspicion, but I'll procure medical supplies. What'll you do about your arsenal?"

 

John considers this. He has enough independent caches scattered across the city to make do, but... "Can I risk going back to the apartment?"

 

"No. We have to assume Samaritan knows all our past aliases and their addresses."

 

"Okay. And I suppose we make do without the books, from now on?"

 

"Yes. It was rather a convoluted system. An additional safeguard. I've always been able to receive numbers direct to my phone, and now so do you. The Machine sent you Ali's and Claire's."

 

He accepts the logic, feels sad for Harold regardless. "All your first editions."

 

Harold looks at him fondly. "They're just things, John. But maybe I'll be able to go back and retrieve them someday."

 

John starts. "You mean they didn't burn the whole place down?"

 

"Unlikely. It would attract too much attention, and a whole swat team converging on an abandoned library was more than enough already." Finch turns his body to face the computer screens. "I managed to get hold of current camera footage. The building's still standing, at least."

 

Reese wonders whether they found the photo of Jessica in the safe. Finch's one remaining photo of himself with Grace was on the hard drives that he'd had to erase.

 

John still misses the Library, the home that it represented. He's had precious few places in his life that he's felt truly attached to, moving on and on and on for too many years. But Finch has found them a new one. He hopes they'll have years here, however unlikely that is. They could easily die tomorrow.

 

"How many recruits do you think Samaritan has?"

 

"Oh, countless. The game wasn't just set up here, it's global. All the graffiti artists, poster designers, architects, that many people working for it already...even if they don't recognize what it is they're involved with. Direct combatants like Claire will be rarer, but it's reasonable to assume Samaritan will have lured someone clever and committed enough in every state, every country."

 

John wants to ask him whether he's not more upset about leaving Claire to her fate. John feels like they've failed her; Finch is thinking of the bigger picture, and while John well understands the need for that, given the odds they're facing, it still makes him nervous. Sacrificing Numbers for the greater cause has never been part of their mission. Not until the congressman, anyway.

 

He never had the chance to ask Harold's forgiveness, about that. He'd been too eager to think like an Agent, had added up all the facts to create a solution, but it was only one of several possible outcomes. He needs Finch to know that he realises this now, and that no matter how strongly John believed in what he'd said in the moment, Finch will always have the final say on decisions that they make together.

 

But when he goes to open his mouth, to apologise, John finds he's afraid to bring it up. He's just got Harold to agree to return, the last thing he wants is to remind him of why he chose to leave. And he's so obviously proud of this new sanctuary he's found, John wants him to enjoy it. He's gazing in the direction of his computer screens, the lenses of his glasses reflecting points of light. John's sure Finch has a million things to think about, to arrange. And presumably he has to plan lectures, grade essays at some point too.

 

John slowly turns away from the subway car and heads for the exit. "I'll be getting back, then. Paperwork." He thinks of the small mountain Fusco dumped on him, reminds himself to get his revenge, sooner or later.

 

"One more thing, Mr. Reese." And John is so giddy hearing his preferred last name pass Finch's lips for the first time in _months_ , he doesn't notice, until it's too late, the cool metal loop snapping shut around his wrist.

 

A surprised grin makes its way onto his face. He turns and looks down at Finch, who is efficiently securing the other half of the cuffs to the diagonal criss-cross metal grating behind John. "You kept them." John says, pleased. He remembers Finch dropping the cuffs into his laptop bag in the backseat of John's car, hadn't thought to ask for them back, hadn't dared to push his luck with Finch even further than he already had.

 

Finch doesn't reply. He goes up the steps, locks the door at the top of them with a heavy clang, then makes his way down again, stops several metres away. He folds his arms across his chest and regards John silently.

 

John slumps back against the gate, bows his head. Sticks his free hand in his pocket. Lets Finch look his fill. In turn, he stares at his friend's perfectly polished shoes - when they slowly start to advance across the floor towards him, John lightly presses his fingertips into his thigh through his pocket's inner lining. Aching to reach out and touch. But he won't, not before Finch does.

 

Harold's fingers tremble slightly as they settle on John's skin. He cups his face with both hands, tilts John's chin up so they're eye-to-eye once more. "How I've missed you, John." And that tone of voice is...a lump rises in John's throat. He blinks a few times rapidly, willing back tears. When he looks again, Finch is still drinking him in, up close. The pad of his thumb traces the line of stubble above John's upper lip.

 

Reese's self-control quietly splinters. He wrenches his left hand out of his pocket and presses it to Finch's back, drawing him into a one-armed embrace. Breathes in deep, almost shuddering with the relief of it. He realises after a moment that the shoulder he's pressed his face into is the one that got shot, and he wants to ask if it has healed okay - but later. If Finch is in any pain whatsoever, he doesn't show it. His hands have slid from John's face to grip his shoulders tightly, the tip of his nose just touching John's neck.

 

"So." John breaks the emotionally charged silence by rattling his chained wrist. "Did you have a plan in mind, with this?"

 

Harold takes a step back, John lets him go. He stares at the cuffs blankly as though he'd forgotten all about them. But then his lips twitch up at the corners, and his eyes narrow. He looks almost playful, and that is not an expression John gets to see on him nearly often enough. The next second Harold surges forward, covers John's lips with his, and John's brain is swamped in a rush of endorphins so fierce he briefly forgets everything in the world except Harold.

 

Like how to kiss him back, without hurting Finch's neck. Where the sensitive patches of skin on Harold's inner wrists are. The quiet, quavering noise he'll make as John grazes the shell of his ear with a fingernail. John opens his mouth when Finch nudges him to, gratefully welcomes his inquisitive tongue, runs his hand through Finch's spiky-soft hair. Right now, he'll gladly do anything Harold wants him to...except stop. But that's exactly what Finch does, backing off several uneven strides and somehow managing to look smug, despite his kiss-reddened lips and tousled hair and slightly skewed glasses. Reese tries to follow him on instinct, and that's when the cuffs pull him up short.

 

John glances between his wrist and Finch's face. That would be the plan, then. "Damnit, Harold." He might _sound_ annoyed, but he's grinning so widely despite himself that there's no real bite to it. Besides - "I could get out of these in under five seconds." John still has the key, after all. And even without it...

 

"I know you could. I'm asking you not to."

 

Well, shit. Finch has him there.

 

Finch reads it in John's hesitation, and the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face gets John hard in under three seconds, never mind five.

 

Reese hooks his fingers into the metal grille behind him, resisting the urge to squirm, and waits for Finch to decide what he's going to do with him. Mercifully, he doesn't have to wait long.

 

"Unbutton your shirt." Finch barks it out like an order, and even as he hurries to obey, Reese can't resist saying it:

 

"Yes, Captain." Finch actually rolls his eyes, but then he walks forward and kisses John again, deep and possessive, so John knows the word communicates the intended meaning.

 

"You need to watch what you say." Finch tells him darkly, when he pulls back, not far at all this time, his breaths tickling John's cheek.

 

"I do." John agrees, preoccupied with nuzzling Harold's jawline.

 

"Careless talk costs lives, you know."

 

"Well that's alright, we're already dead."

 

"Not yet, we aren't." Finch undoes the last two buttons of John's shirt himself, hooks his fingers under his waistband, finding John's erection. John groans. Puts his head back. Leans as much of his weight as he dares on the rickety old gate. It's a matter of pride for him, ensuring that his knees don't buckle.

 

That task becomes doubly difficult when Harold grinds the heel of his other hand over John's crotch. He doesn't stay there for long, swiftly slides the hand down between John's thighs, as though measuring his inseam with fingertips alone. For one delirious second John wonders if Finch is going to kneel - it wouldn't be the first time - but he straightens up instead and begins to carefully work on John's belt. John keeps very still as he does.

 

Once he's slid it out from around John's waist, Finch threads the belt through one of the diamond-shaped gaps in the mesh, lets it dangle there just above John's left hand. He looks like he wants to maybe bind John's other wrist with it, but he gives John a pointed look and John smiles mock-innocently right back, so he leaves it.

 

Harold undoes John's fly. John grits his teeth. Pants and boxers slither to John's knees; Finch is still fully dressed, it seems a little unfair.

 

"At least take your tie off, or something."

 

Harold pauses. "As you wish." His hand goes to his own throat, loosens the knot, pops up his collar.

 

Reese really does squirm then. Keeping from reaching out is costing him.

 

Finch drapes his tie around John's neck, smooths the fabric down against his bare chest. It's a mark of ownership far more personal than the handcuffs. John's dick twitches. Finch notices this, like he notices everything. He licks the pad of his thumb, the way John has seen him do before when turning pages in the Library. Touches his thumb to John's tip, collects the bead of moisture forming there, uses it to smooth a path for his hand along John's cock. He's too gentle, the curve of his fingers barely skimming John's flesh.

 

Reese tries, and fails, not to buck powerfully into his grip, which tightens reflexively. The handcuffs clink, the whole gate rattles. John's belt unbalances, slips free, and lands on the floor. Finch raises his eyebrows at him. Holds onto John's hip with his other hand.

 

"You didn't say I couldn't _move_ ," John points out.

 

"Fine, just don't shake the walls down, this place _is_ supposed to be empty. And it...echoes more than the Library."

 

Reese glances down significantly at Harold's hand still lightly squeezing him. "You'd better kiss me again if you don't want me to make noises, Finch."

 

Finch obliges. Meanwhile, the hand on John's hip works around under his shirt, knuckles dig into the small of John's back, urging him forward, making it more difficult for him to rock back into the gate. In any case he won't risk crushing Harold's hand, now that it's there.

 

It occurs to John that he's not done much for Harold, and he can't, without using his left hand and going against Finch's orders. He settles for rutting towards him in small increments, gasping into Finch's mouth as he finally sets a rhythm firm and fast enough that won't drive John insane. He succeeds in bumping their chests together once or twice, provoking Harold to dig in his knuckles at John's spine harder, drive John a little higher.

 

As he crests the top of the wave, John tugs hard on his cuffed wrist to keep himself upright, but otherwise lets his mind go blissfully blank.

 

When he opens his eyes again, Finch is slumped against him. John's left arm has, without his conscious permission, wrapped itself supportively around Harold's lower back. John feels rather than hears him mutter something against the skin at the base of John's throat. He doesn't ask Finch to repeat it, because he thinks he can guess. He presses his lips to Harold's sideburn, with all the tenderness he's been bottling up.

 

They stand and catch their breath together. When Finch draws himself away, out of the protective circle of John's arm, he heaves a reluctant little sigh, but reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and proceeds to take care of the practicalities. Once he's cleaned John and his hands, he reaches for the left side of John's suit, scrunching it between his fingers.

 

John's confused, before he realises he's looking for the key. "Wrong one." Reese inclines his head down and to the right, indicating his inner jacket pocket. Finch fishes it out and unlocks the cuffs, rubbing John's wrist to stimulate his circulation. John flexes his fingers, enjoying the rush of pins-and-needles.

 

Reese gives him his tie back. Instead of putting it on straightaway, Finch goes to set it down on his new desk, allowing John time to do up his shirt, pull up his pants and retrieve his belt. By the time Finch steps back out of the car, John's about as presentable as he can be.

 

He thinks Finch must be uncomfortable, though. "Are you...?"

 

Harold tugs down his vest, a little self-consciously. "Quite alright, Mr. Reese."

 

John throws him a plaintive look. "At least let me... "

 

\---

 

The subway floor is rougher and cooler than the smooth wooden planks of the Library against John's knees as he licks Harold clean. He hopes he'll have the time to get used to the difference.

 

\---

 

"Back to work, then, Detective."

 

"Goodnight, Harold."

 

John goes up the steps and out of their safe place, into the full glare of Samaritan once more.


End file.
